


Forces of Nature

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Drama, Elemental Magic, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, Romance, mention of death of a child, not series 4 compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: It isn’t that they’re necessarilyrare.Approximately ten percent of the population manifest as Elementals. Gifted ones, though? Those are one in a thousand.What are the odds that two Gifted Elementals would meet and become flatmates?Very improbable. Not, however, impossible.





	Forces of Nature

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Силы природы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437698) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Written for the H.I.A.T.U.S. June challenge, Elemental Magic.
> 
> Many many thanks to both of my betas, dulcimergecko and trickybonmot. Thanks for the swift and thorough beta!
> 
>  
> 
> Possible tw: mention of child death

 

 

_ The element of earth binds fire, water and air in various proportions, which makes possible the formation of materials with different properties -- _  [Source](http://www.spiritual-knowledge.net/articles/fire-water-air-earth.php)

 

 ***

  

**Earth**

 

John Watson has known what he is since the age of ten. Ever since that day at the beach when the tide washed away the intricate castle he and Harry had built up over the course of the afternoon. Desperate to soothe his sister’s disappointment before it manifested vocally, he stretched out his hand without thinking and within the blink of an eye, the castle reappeared several feet away from the ocean’s reach. Harry gasped, eyes shimmering with delight and unshed tears. She clapped her hands together and squealed, “Johnny! You did magic!”

 

That had been a lifetime ago, before his sister’s admiration faded into jealousy and disdain.

 

It was this talent that helped shape him into a very good doctor. During his training, he was in high demand in the A&E’s, putting his skills to good use. No one could reknit broken skin, bones and muscle back together better or faster than him. His healing hands effortlessly directed blood, cells and proteins to where they needed to go. Patients other doctors had given up on enjoyed a staggering survival rate once John Watson laid his hands on them. 

John could have become a highly successful surgeon, if that had been the path he had chosen.

But it wasn’t. Because John not only craved excitement; he craved danger as well.

So when the army came calling, eager to exploit his skills for other purposes, John was more than willing to sign up.

Nobody, not even John himself, had known how powerful he truly was until he was immersed in the Afghan desert: surrounded night and day, and as far as the eye could see, by exposed and windswept sand just waiting to be moulded by expert hands.

 

***

 

The first time John was ordered to use his powers for a reason other than medical, he didn’t hesitate. The enemy was swiftly bearing down on them, and they were outnumbered five to one. John lost no time; his actions were instinctive. By the count of ten the other side found themselves in the middle of a dense sandstorm, blinded and confused. John’s side, however, enjoyed clear skies and a straightforward path back to base. They beat a swift retreat, leaving their foes to stagger around for hours trying to find their way clear. There were no casualties that time.

John was promoted to Captain for preventing a bloody skirmish.

The second time was for offensive purposes, and for some reason John initially baulked at the order. He had no qualms about using his gun during battle - he had killed before - but to use his Terran ability to cut down enemy combatants seemed too personal, almost sacrilegious. As if he were cheating. 

He did what he was told, of course. He shaped the sand into five large dust devils and used them to plough through the advancing troops. Vehicles flipped over, weapons flew out of hands, men were tossed into the air… some were buried alive. The bloodcurdling screams made appearances in his dreams for months afterward.   

For that melee, John was promoted to Major.

Command suited him. The higher up he rose, the more control he had over if and when his unique talents were utilized. But every time they needed to be deployed, a little more of his humanity slipped away. The grit and sand absorbed into his skin and dug deep into his soul, claiming more and more of his identify. 

Then he took a bullet to the shoulder, and all of that ended.

 

***

 

John blinks awake to the sound of beeping monitors. His left hand trembles; he closes it into a fist, willing the nerve damage away. But it doesn’t work like that; he’s never been able to heal himself. He opens his hand, only to find that the tremor is still there. His eyes close again in resignation.

As the weeks pass it becomes clear that John will not be returning to active duty, ever. To add insult to injury, he has a limp with no known physical cause. Even if he had the ability to heal his own body, he wouldn’t have been able to heal that. More proof that he has been irretrievably damaged.

It’s not that he’s lost his ‘powers’; he hasn’t even lost his Gifted status. Every Elemental is born with the same tools at their disposal. Gifted individuals just happen to be born with a special knack for fine-tuning their focus and control. It’s mostly a question of motivation and discipline.

It’s John’s state of mind that’s been compromised. Yes, the tremor in his dominant hand means that he can no longer wield a scalpel with precision, but that doesn’t mean his abilities can no longer be put to use, both Elemental and Human. But John believes both have been compromised, and that he is no longer useful. 

The army provides him with a pension, a bedsit, and a therapist - all of which only serve to spiral him deeper into depression.

 

* * *

 

**Air**

 

Sherlock Holmes blows into his life like a whirlwind, wreaking havoc and chaos wherever he goes. He snatches facts, observations and conclusions seemingly from thin air; he is a magician, only the magic he weaves is real, not illusion. His coat flaps and twirls about him, and not in an entirely natural way. When he runs down the streets of London, his feet barely touch the pavement. He floats from rooftop to rooftop with the grace of a ballet dancer - effortlessly, almost as if he weighs nothing at all.  

The most impressive thing he does, in John’s mind, is pluck John out of his self-imposed miserable and drab existence, throwing him right back into the battlefield. Within twenty-four hours, John loses both his limp and his intermittent tremor.   

A true force of nature: that’s what Sherlock Holmes is. And John really should have known straight away that he was one of Them.

 

***

 

It isn’t that they’re necessarily  _ rare.  _ Approximately ten percent of the population manifest as Elementals. Gifted ones, though? Those are one in a thousand. 

What are the odds that two Gifted Elementals would meet and become flatmates? 

Very improbable. Not, however, impossible.

 

***

 

John broaches the subject two weeks after moving in. They’re eating dinner at Angelo’s, post-case. A strenuous chase that left John gasping ended with Sherlock barely out of breath. Almost as if he held an endless supply of oxygen in his lungs. 

John waits until Sherlock has a mouthful of food before he speaks.

“So you’re a Zephyr, then. Can’t say as I’ve met many of those.”

Sherlock just lifts an eyebrow as he continues chewing.

Nonplussed by the lack of reaction, John continues, “I mean, the evidence was mounting up. I’m not completely oblivious. But when that bullet that was headed straight for me somehow switched direction midstream, well - that was the clincher. You must have very focussed control, to manage that.” 

John smiles at Sherlock, whose only reaction is a slight blush that creeps up from his neck onto his face. 

“Changeable and unpredictable, just like the wind,” John says.

Sherlock swallows. He clears his throat. “Yes, well. And you’re a Terran. As steady and unchanging as a rock. Admirable qualities that are worth preserving. I’d be a fool to not try and ensure your continued existence.”

John barks out a laugh. “Right. Good to know that I’m good for something, at least.”

The two eat in companionable silence, until John’s curiosity gets the better of him.

“So, what about the deduction thing?”

Sherlock frowns. “What about it?”

“Is that part of the whole Zephyr thing? Or something completely separate?”

“Both. I can observe and deduce on my own well enough. But I have to admit that it’s enhanced by information that my Network of air currents gleans for me. I’m the only one who understands the language, so it’s quite a secure method of communication.”

John blinks. “I’m sorry, air currents? You have air currents that speak to you?”

“Of course they don’t ‘speak’, don’t be ridiculous. They don’t have voice boxes. Don’t you have ways in which the earth communicates with you? I would imagine something to do with touch?”

“What exactly do you imagine? That I plunge my hands into the soil and, what?  _ Feel  _ what it has to say?”

“Well I don’t know, do I? With the air, often it has to do with different sensations as they brush against my skin. Sometimes they send messages by the way they disturb inanimate objects, like banners or flags. Also, I can make out their codes when they whistle through tree branches, blow around buildings, things like that.”

“You rely pretty heavily on your Network, then.”

“Yes, I do.” Sherlock frowns. “My brother claims that he can communicate with running water in much the same way. When we were children, he insisted that the bubbling brook that ran through our property was telling him secrets that nobody else knew. Even back then he was intolerable.”

“Your brother is an Aquarian, then? Two Elementals in one family? That’s almost unheard of.”

A complicated expression flits across Sherlock’s face - there one minute,  gone the next. John isn’t sure he didn’t imagine it, especially when Sherlock’s demeanor makes an abrupt switch.

“Yes.” Sherlock smirks. “Although unlike me, he isn’t Gifted. He’s too lazy to bother sharpening those skills.” His smirk transforms into a scowl. “But I have to admit his natural gifts surpass mine. He’s much better at deductions than I am.”

John laughs. “Sibling rivalry to rival  _ all  _ sibling rivalry, I’m sure.”

“John. That sentence contains way too many iterations of the word ‘rival’. Arrange your thoughts in a more orderly fashion before you speak next time.”

John smiles, his heart light and joyous. “Git,” he responds, before focussing his attention on tackling the meal before him.

 

* * *

  

**Fire**

 

Sherlock’s landlady seems perfectly ordinary, at first meeting. A bit ditzy perhaps, but people tend to overlook that by chalking it up to age. She’s sweet, solicitous, and has the patience of a saint. Of course one would have to, when one has Sherlock Holmes as a tenant. 

As time goes on John learns that Mrs Hudson is, in reality, a little spitfire. There’s something simmering underneath all of that affability that holds the potential of a raging firestorm. Her fiery personality becomes more apparent as time goes on - or perhaps it’s always been there, and John only comes to recognise it as they become better acquainted. It hardly matters; it only serves to make her more interesting. 

One night John comes home late from the surgery, exhausted and heartsore. He forgot his umbrella that morning, so he’s both cold and drenched, states that contribute to his overall misery. Sherlock’s still at Barts running an experiment, and since the radiator has been on the blink for the past week, John fully expects to come home to a dark and frigid flat. The only consolation he can drum up is the thought of a nice long, hot shower and then some tea.

Wearily, he peels off his dripping jacket and toes out of his sopping shoes before ascending the steps. Along the way he scrubs a hand through his wet hair, hoping to get rid of the excess moisture. 

When he opens the door to the flat, he’s met with an unexpected sight. Mrs Hudson rarely intrudes upon their privacy without first knocking or calling, and she never lets herself into 221B when neither of them are there without notifying them beforehand. At least, not as far as John knows.

But today, there she is, kneeling in front of the hearth with her back to John. The sitting room is well-lit, lending a comforting, homey ambience that is more than welcoming to John’s bedraggled spirit. A struggling fire flickers in the fireplace, and it looks like Mrs Hudson is preparing to coax it alive. John opens his mouth to grace her with a warm greeting - and stops short when he notices what she is actually doing.

She holds no match, nor a lighter of any kind. She waves both of her hands over the dying flames and embers, moving from one end of the hearth to the other. As her hands move over each area, the flames flare higher and brighter. At one end the fire hasn’t caught at all, and there Mrs Hudson points her finger at the base of the wood. A spark travels from the tip of her finger to the kindling, setting that section ablaze along with the rest.

Awestruck, John whispers, “Mrs Hudson.”

As quiet as his whisper is, it still reverberates in the hushed atmosphere. Mrs Hudson springs up and whirls around, hand flying to her chest.

“John! Goodness sake, you startled me! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Mrs Hudson. You just…”

Mrs Hudson’s shoulders slump. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them again and pinning John with a look of resignation. 

“Why don’t you pop into the shower, dear. I’ll put on the kettle, and you can join me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”

 

**

 

“I’m sorry, John.” Mrs Hudson eyes him anxiously as they both sit in 221B’s kitchen sipping hot and revitalizing tea out of fine china. “I don’t make a habit of entering your flat when both of you are gone, I really don’t. But Sherlock called saying you were on your way home from work after a long day, and that you’d probably appreciate coming home to a flat that wasn’t cold and dark. I didn’t have much warning, and so little time to get the fire going at a good pace in time for your arrival. So I -- helped it along a bit.”

John stares at her. Two thoughts battle simultaneously for his attention: One, Sherlock Holmes was concerned about John coming home to an inviting atmosphere after a hard day at work? Did he somehow know about the poor prognosis he had to inform one of his favourite patients about? And two…

“I thought Elements could only be manipulated - not created.”

Mrs Hudson shrugs. “I didn’t really ‘create’ anything. You’re a doctor, you know that the body functions basically on electrical impulses. I just harnessed that energy and converted it into something usable.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

She gives him a lopsided grin. “How many Vulcanites have you actually come into contact with? And a Gifted one to boot?”

John smiles. “Fair point.” Vulcanites make up about five percent of the Elemental population; they are the rarest type. To also be gifted - well. 

“I wasn’t trying to hide it. You know how it goes; you try not to rely on it too heavily just for daily things you can manage just fine the regular way. I mean I know it’s different for you boys, having such important professions -”

“Wait. You mean - “

Mrs Hudson waves her hand in an unconcerned fashion. “I’ve known about Sherlock for ages. And he’s told me all about you, of course. We’re all family here, aren’t we?”

John isn’t sure. Are they? It’s not as if he knows how a functional family is supposed to work.

“How long have you known Sherlock?” John asks.

“Almost seven years. He did me a favour, you know. Rescued me from my murdering husband. Well, Sherlock gave me the courage to rescue  _ myself _ , actually. Otherwise Frank would have got away with it.”

“Sherlock told me he ensured his execution?”

“Oh yes. By electrocution.”

John is surprised. “The electric chair? I wasn’t aware that method was still in use.”

“It is, in certain places. But that’s not how Frank died. He was struck by lightning. Or rather, he was  _ targeted _ by lightning.”

John swallows. Suddenly Mrs Hudson doesn’t seem so harmless after all.

Mrs Hudson pats his hand in a manner meant to be reassuring. “Now don’t you fret, dear. I’m not a monster. It was the only way I could get away from him. Sherlock had enough evidence to convict him, of course, but Frank was out on bail, and he would have come after me. Thankfully Sherlock convinced me I had the strength to do what needed done. It was best for all concerned.”

John really does understand. He’s killed more than his fair share of people, after all, and for less noble reasons. 

“Now,” Mrs Hudson says, breaking his train of thought, “why don’t you help me whip up a hot supper for the two of you? Sherlock should be home within the hour, and I have ingredients for that casserole thing he likes so well.”

 

* * *

 

**Water**

 

Once again, John finds himself caught in a torrential downpour. He just can’t seem to catch a break. The fact that the forecast for the day called for bright and sunny skies with only a five percent chance of precipitation only adds insult to injury. John glares at Mycroft when he catches sight of him in front of Speedy’s, standing under his umbrella and smoking a cigarette.

“Do you cause this to happen, or do you just sense it? Either way, a bit of warning might be nice,” John snipes. He gestures at the umbrella. “And why do you even need that thing? It’s not like you can’t protect yourself from your own element.”

“That wouldn’t be very prudent of me, now would it, John? Not when one needs to keep a low profile regarding one’s - talents.”

“Of course, what was I thinking? Well, are we going in so I can dry off? I assume you didn’t arrange this meeting to make small talk.”

“Naturally not. After you, John.”

The two of them make their way into the cafe, John looking like a drowned rat while Mycroft is as put together and unruffled as usual. John hates him.

Mycroft waits until two cups of coffee and two plates of scones arrive them before he deigns to tell John the reason why they’re both here. As always, it’s to do with Sherlock.

The Irene Adler fiasco wrapped up two days ago. She is safely out of the way, exiled to America with a new identity and a clean slate. There was something lurking underneath the surface during the entire case that Sherlock couldn’t quite put his finger on - an undercurrent of something indefinable and yet unquestionably dangerous. Everything was tied up neatly with no loose ends, but Mycroft had almost been compromised. 

“I worry about him, John - constantly,” Mycroft begins. “Someone was pulling Ms Adler’s strings, and whoever it is has his eye on Sherlock. You know he’s a loose cannon when he’s bored. Whoever is behind all of this wants to lure Sherlock into a game, and I’m afraid that my brother won’t be able to resist the challenge. He will invariably find himself well and truly trapped in a web from which there is no escape. You need to keep a weather eye on him.”

John finishes his first bite of a most excellent strawberry scone before answering. “He’s doing fine, Mycroft. Believe it or not, he’s a grown man who can look out for himself.”

“Perhaps. But he has a habit of disregarding the safety and well-being of those around him.”

John has to agree with that assessment, as much as it irks him to do so. He can’t find it in his heart to judge too harshly, since he himself has been known to disregard the danger and behave in a decidedly reckless manner.

Mycroft continues, “John, my brother has the Gifts to be or do anything he sets his mind to. Why do you suppose he elects to be a detective?”

“I don’t know,” John admits.

“Neither do I,” Mycroft says wistfully. “But initially, he wanted to be a pirate.”

John grins. “Did he rope you into being first mate?”

“Oh yes. He thought it’d be great fun for the two of us to roam the seven seas together. During one of our summers in France, we actually managed to bring that fantasy to life, if only on a small scale. We took the sailboat out onto the lake and pretended we were surrounded by water as far as the eye could see, even though the shore was never far from sight. It was a miracle we didn’t capsize, honestly. Both of us could be very - enthusiastic.”

John’s chest twinges with jealousy. He and Harry were never able to connect like that. “Did you two play around with the elements often when you were kids?” 

“As often as we could get away with. Sherlock loved playing Thunderstorms. Well. We all did. I enjoyed it as much as they did.”

“They?”

Something flickers across Mycroft’s face; it looks a lot like sorrow.

“We had a little sister, Sherlock and I. Whenever we got bored, we would combine our magic and create thunderstorms. We all suffered from insomnia, so more often than not it happened in the middle of the night. Lightning, thunder and torrential downpours.  A perfect trifecta.”

John is stunned at this information regarding the Holmes family. “Where is your sister now?”

“She died. When she was just a child.”

"Oh. I’m so sorry. What happened?” 

“She accidentally set the house on fire. She was so young, she lost control quickly. Sherlock, in his agitation, only made it worse by unintentionally fanning the flames. I tried as best I could to put it out, but it was too little too late. Sherlock and I escaped, along with our parents; our sister did not.”

John sucks in a breath. He doesn’t know what to say in response, so he says nothing. He awkwardly brings the cup of coffee to his lips and takes a sip. Words won’t change anything anyway.

Mycroft clears his throat. “Back to the matter at hand. John, I need you to keep your guard up. Sherlock will become bored, and when he’s bored, he becomes complacent. We can’t let whatever this is catch us unawares. You’re a soldier; you know what I’m talking about.”

“ _ Was  _ a soldier.”

“No.”

John sighs. It never does any good to argue with either Holmes sibling. 

“You don’t have to order, or even  _ ask  _ me to have Sherlock’s back. I always do and I always will.” 

Mycroft gives him a hard look. “You’re very loyal,  _ very  _ quickly.”

John huffs out a laugh. “I’m really not. We’ve been flatmates and friends for more than six months.”

“Friends?”

“Of course we’re friends!”

“Friends who have only known each other for six months don’t generally make such sweeping declarations. Are you sure that’s all you feel for him?”

John swallows hard. He can’t afford to let Mycroft catch a glimpse of what he’s tried very hard to keep buried these past few months. So he deflects as best he can.

“Sherlock doesn’t feel things like that.”

“That isn’t what I asked. But no matter. I can tell when someone’s being genuine, and you’re obviously sincere when you claim to, as you put it,  _ have his back _ . Let’s just hope that he has yours as well.” 

 

***

 

Every time Mycroft comes to visit, John gets a headache. It would have been bad enough if the brothers were merely human; the fact that they’re both Elementals makes all of their interactions that much more migraine-inducing. 

This time is no exception. John enters the flat after a graveyard shift, only to be met by the sight of the Holmes brothers  - Sherlock in his chair and Mycroft in John’s - glaring daggers at one another. The air around Sherlock shimmers, hazy and opaque. Nothing’s happening near Mycroft, so he must be merely annoyed.

It’s times like these that make John grateful neither of the brothers is a Vulcanite. Who knows what kind of damage would ensue if that were the case?

“Sherlock, it is a matter of national importance. Don’t make me order you.”

Sherlock scowls. “I’d like to see you try.”

Mycroft sighs. “John, maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

John holds up in hands in mock surrender. “I highly doubt it. Don’t drag me into this.”

“Don’t you have minions who can do this sort of thing, Mycroft?” Sherlock sneers. “Or better yet, do it yourself.” 

Suddenly, Mycroft’s tie flips over his left shoulder and his hair ruffles as if by an invisible hand. 

Sherlock smirks. “Forget your tie pin, brother mine?”

John can see Mycroft’s annoyance level inching upward into anger, but he’s clearly trying to rein himself in. Mycroft smooths his tie back into place and gives the top of his head a quick pat.

“I don’t trust anybody else for this particular job. And I can’t leave the office at the moment. At any rate, you know how much I detest -- leg work.”

“I can’t possibly. I’m far too busy.”

Mycroft leans forward and fixes Sherlock with his most menacing look yet. The tea that sits at Sherlock’s elbow (gone stone cold, and in John’s RAMC mug) begins to boil violently. Sherlock merely lifts a brow, unimpressed.

“Stop being childish, Sherlock,” Mycroft snaps. “When your country needs you, I expect you to lend your services without question!”

Mrs Hudson emerges from the kitchen with a plateful of biscuits. “No need to speak to your brother that way. And shame on you for pushing him into harm’s way. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes.” She deposits the plate on the table between them.

“Oh Mrs Hudson, do shut up,” Mycroft says.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock and John shout in unison.

Mycroft leans back and shrinks in on himself. “Apologies,” he mutters. The tea in John’s mug settles back into a placid state. 

“Thank you,” Mrs Hudson says. “Now sit up straight and eat your biscuits.”

Sherlock picks up the tea, now at a reasonable temperature, and salutes Mycroft with it before taking a hearty swallow.

“Perfect,” he pronounces.

 

A week later, Sherlock and John find themselves chasing after a mad bomber while tracking down a memory stick.

 

* * *

 

 

One in a thousand people are Gifted Elementals. 

Mages are another step up. They show up in about one out of every ten million births. Their unique ability is that they have control over all four of the elements. 

 

“I will burn you. I will burn the  _ heart  _ out of you.”

 

  
***

 

PART ONE DONE -- TO BE CONTINUED

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come check me out on tumblr: pipmer.tumblr.com


End file.
